


This Story is Definitely Not About A Date

by Unforth



Series: I Dream of Deanie [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bisexual Dean, Castiel's Point of View, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porny Plot, Semi-Public Sex, There's Actually a Little Plot, There's No Word for Castiel's Sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:30:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4086901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I Dream of Deanie" Part 5. In order to protect Dean, Castiel has been restraining his grace...and other things. Of course, Dean doesn't know why Castiel has been holding himself back. Destiel PWP. Set vaguely S5ish. Continuation of "Emotional Constipation," continued in "There But For the Grace of Castiel."</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Story is Definitely Not About A Date

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fifth installment in the "I Dream of Deanie" series. The stories are linked, and while each can be read as stand alone PWP of a relationship between sort of canonical versions of Dean and Castiel, they make more sense when read in order.
> 
> Part 1: "Can't Hold a Man's Dreams Against Him"  
> Part 2: "The First Time, Again"  
> Part 3: "They're Good For Your Heart"  
> Part 4: "Emotional Constipation"

The plan was going excellently.

A month of traveling with Sam and Dean, solving cases as they went. A month of sharing rooms with Dean at night. A month of laying beside Dean as he fell asleep spent by passion, laying beside Dean through the night as the hunter expressed unconsciously the affection he was unable to speak of, laying beside Dean when he awoke with a lazy smile in the morning. A month noticing that Dean gave him sidelong glances showing a whole rainbow of emotions, pleasure to confusion to frustration, but only when he thought Castiel wasn’t looking. A month of hardly leaving Dean’s side.

A month without allowing his grace the least freedom.

“Dammit, Sam, it’s not werewolf,” Dean snapped, slamming the gun he’d finished cleaning down on the table a bit too forcefully. Surprised at his vehemence, Castiel shared a glance with Sam, who shrugged slightly.

“I’m just saying it could be,” insisted Sam. “Other than the moon phase, everything else fits. It must have had super-strength to rip that door off the hinges, the cops are sure it outran their car, and you saw the traffic cam footage – it got shot three times and didn’t even flinch. Add in that all of the victim’s hearts have been missing...if this was a full moon, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Pretty big ‘if’ there,” groused Dean. “Not a full moon, not a werewolf. Dad’s journal says so, every hunter we know says so, Bobby says so. It’s not a werewolf. Back me up on this, Cas.”

“It would be unusual,” Castiel looked at the brothers, who were scowling at each other. “I do not have enough experience with lycanthropes to say if it is unprecedented.” Dean turned the scowl on Castiel. There was an unexpected amount of warmth and anger in that gaze that Castiel couldn’t understand.

“What’s the harm in behaving as if it  _is_ a werewolf?” Sam pointed out with exasperation. “We stake out likely spots, we keep our eyes open, if it shows up, fantastic, if it doesn’t, we’re no worse off than we were before.”

“Unless someone is getting eviscerated someplace else,” said Dean caustically. “Or, unless we find it and we shoot it with silver and _nothing fucking happens_. We go in half-blind and stupid, people die. We gotta know what this is before we try to kill it.”

“Fine,” Sam said, rolling his eyes and slamming his laptop shut. “I’m going to the library, see if I can find anything in the archive about prior attacks. If we can find anything like this historically, maybe we can establish a pattern.”

“I’m going to talk to Officer Slake again,” Dean rose and shrugged his suit jacket back on. Generally Castiel paid little attention to Dean’s wardrobe, more drawn by his personality, his handsome face, and the internal radiance of his soul. However, there was something indefinably alluring about Dean when he wore a suit to impersonate a member of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It was, Castiel thought, a combination of the flattering fit of the clothing items around Dean’s torso and hips, the simple black and white colors that brought out the rich luster of Dean’s skin tone, and the barely perceptible discomfort with which Dean wore the garments, which lent Dean an adorable streak of vulnerability. “You coming, Cas?” Dean turned to him with a frown and there was a flicker of disquiet in the gleam of Dean’s soul. It twisted Castiel’s stomach to see it, but it couldn’t be helped.

The first week after that wonderful, terrifying evening in Samaria, Dean’s soul didn’t notice anything different. They spent time together and engaged in frequent relations. That beautiful essence reached for him, but Castiel did not permit his grace to reciprocate.

“No, Dean,” Castiel shook his head. “I have not yet achieved adequate competence at masquerading as an officer of the law. I do not wish to risk exposing you.”

The second week, Dean’s soul had taunted him. Dean had pushed Castiel harder and harder in bed, driving him harder and harder into the mattress, advances so aggressive that Castiel flushed remembering it. Simultaneously, Dean’s soul had flared and struggled and thrown itself at the barriers holding Castiel’s grace at bay. To prevent any accidents, Castiel had used more and more power to reinforce that magical containment. There was more spellpower keep Castiel’s grace trapped than Dean’s entire soul possessed.

Dean quirked an eyebrow at him.

“There is a bestiary in the library at British Museum annotated by a family that dedicated themselves to fighting werewolves for centuries,” continued Castiel. “I will consult the manuscript and see what I might be able to learn.” A jealous, pouty look overtook Sam’s features. Castiel returned both looks impassively.

The third week, Dean’s soul had grown sneaky, trying to surprise Castiel into letting go his hold on himself. It behaved in a restrained fashion up until the moment when Castiel was wrecked by desire, close to the edge of his orgasm, or flushed by the powerful afterglow. Then, it would ambush him, reach for his grace, try to wheedle and tease access to the angelic light. In order to prevent it, Castiel had become wary. It was unpleasant to not be able to lose himself completely in the wonderful feelings that Dean’s attentions produced, but there was no choice. 

No one moved. “We’ll talk tonight, then?” Sam finally, hesitantly broke the impasse. Dean nodded wordlessly. Sam muttered something that sounded a great deal like ‘emotional constipation’ and headed out of the motel room.

This past week, things had begun to normalize. Based on Dean’s soul’s actions, Castiel thought it had grown resigned. Unexpectedly, the acceptance Castiel had hoped for proved unpleasant and upsetting in reality. Feeling Dean’s soul respond to Castiel’s distance by also maintaining distance hurt. The inherent, unspoken trust and love necessary for Dean’s essence to reach for Castiel in the first place was precious to him. Now that it appeared to be at an end, Castiel missed it. That was the most dangerous feeling, and the past few days had been the most trying for Castiel.

Struggling to meet Dean’s eyes, he saw the uncertainty and traces of hurt tightening Dean’s features, followed by a lewd smile as Dean realized that the two of them were alone in the motel room and Sam would be at the library for the foreseeable future.

“I will see you this evening, Dean,” Castiel said discouragingly. A shocked scowl overcame the early signs of desire that had painted that gorgeous face.

Dean had definitely noticed that Castiel was no longer surrendering himself completely to the pleasures of love making.

“Fine, whatever,” Dean grunted. Dean’s soul made a faint keening sound, and Castiel’s grace surged against the limits he’d placed on it. Castiel forced himself to look up and meet Dean’s eyes, schooled his expression to patience and fortitude.

Arriving in Sheffield, Alabama had been something of a blessing. The Colbert County Motor Inn was the only motel they’d been able to find, and there was only one vacancy. The brothers were sharing a room. That meant that there was no intimacy between Dean and Castiel, and thus there was no danger. Castiel had to admit it was a relief to let his guard down a little bit.

“This case is urgent,” Castiel suggested by way of excuse. It wasn’t untrue. Four people had been killed in a week.

Perhaps the plan was not going so excellently after all. It was horrible to contemplate that he found relief in necessitated distance between himself and Dean. He wanted to be with Dean all the time, touch him all the time, sooth him and pleasure him all the time. The strain of doing so was exhausting, though, when Castiel also had to constantly police himself. Perhaps he should begin answering prayers more regularly again, gain himself precious days of solitude with which to restore his willpower and reserves. If they were to continue their intimacy, this was how things had to be. Castiel had to prevent his grace from attempting to absorb Dean, and Dean’s soul had to learn to stop automatically reaching for him. The only alternative was to break off their relations, and, though he knew it was selfish of him, Castiel could not bear the thought of doing so.

The door slammed behind Dean.

The brooding looks that Dean gave him were unmistakable. Castiel understood, increasingly, that he was beginning to face the sad prospect of losing Dean anyway. Shoulders slumping, Castiel huffed a sigh. With Dean’s departure, he could finally allow himself to stretch his powers, and he carefully released a small amount of his grace, spread his wings and flew to London.

Luminescent shifting clouds were visible through the vast windowed dome of the library at the British Museum, made deep gray by reflected light despite the darkness of an English night. Shadows fractured and crept over the floor. The room was quiet save for the hum of air conditioning and dehumidifiers, and work tables made a maze of spoke-like aisles around the central hub of the vacant reference desk.

With a relieved sigh, Castiel uncaged his grace and let the brilliant light seep faintly through the room. As tempting as it was to stretch and revel in his released true form, the museum curators would not appreciate if he shattered the windows and destroyed their security system. Instead he used magic to hide from the cameras and expanded his senses to scan for the Reynder’s  _Physiologus_ . All along the shelves, Castiel could sense small traces of magic, books of power scattered amongst the collection. At a greater distance, he was faintly aware of the millions of souls within miles of his location, human and otherwise. Afar, he could feel a distant tug like a thread tied to his soul, Dean’s soul sensing grace and responding to it, but there was no sense of need or desperation. Dean was not reaching for him, and Castiel found his sense of Dean’s location, however far removed, comforting.

Darting about the room, Castiel checked book spines until he found the unique version of  _The Physiologus_ created by monks in Maastricht in the 10 th century. Reverently taking the volume in his hands, fingers catching on the age-roughened leather cover, Castiel brought it to a table and began to carefully page through. The volume was extensively annotated in cipher by numerous hands. Academics theorized that the monks used a unique shorthand. The truth was that the Reynders had owned the volume and had used it as their journal and research tool for centuries. The family had been one among many that the garrison periodically checked on, and Castiel had occasionally watched their exploits while accepting the frustrations of being unable to aid them when they needed it. The family’s long standing feud with a clan of German werewolves ultimately, unsurprisingly, ended in tragedy. Before that, however, the Reynders compiled more information about the breeds of lycanthropes than existed anywhere else in the world. Even the Men of Letters didn’t know as much.

Flipping through, Castiel easily found what he needed. An etching had been inserted between the pages, a black and white picture showing a strong, ragged wild man savaging a baby amidst the wreckage of a family. It was one of several pages tipped in between the original leaves of the book, all covered in writing. Concentrating to remember the code that the Reynders had used, Castiel slowly perused the data. The Reynders had encountered multiple instances of lycanthropes that did not change at the full moon. Most had proved to be what the family had termed “zuiver bloed,” pure blood, werewolves closely related to the first, ancient werewolf spawned by Eve in Purgatory. A shiver trailed down Castiel’s spine at the thought, a chill he couldn’t ascribe to any cause but that had him looking over his shoulder. The skittering patches of darkness and light visible through the windows made him nervous, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that, for a moment, he wasn’t alone in the room.

“Cas, you done yet?” It was easily the least orthodox, most frustrated-sounding prayer that Dean had ever sent Castiel’s way. Chuckling, Castiel closed the book, transported it back to the shelf it was from, and instantly covered the miles that separated him and Dean.

Late afternoon sunlight made long shadows across the motel parking lot. The Impala was parked before their room, and Dean sat on the hood, one leg raised beside him as he leaned on it with his elbow, jacket unbuttoned, tie undone and hanging loosely, beer bottle pressed to his lips. Dean started when Castiel appeared in front of him, the glass of the bottle making an audible ting against his teeth.

“Guess that’s a yes,” he said with a faint scowl, taking a sip of his beer.

“Did you not have luck with Officer Slake?”

“He reported me to my boss,” said Dean sourly, taking another drink.

“Did he have a pleasant conversation with Bobby?” Dean’s chuckle proved that Castiel had correctly interpreted Dean’s comment.

“Wanna grab dinner, Cas?” Dean asked, words muffled because his lips were curled around the top of the bottle. “I spotted this place across town, looked nice.”

With a half-smile and raised eyebrows, Castiel quirked his head to one side. “I don’t eat, Dean.” Dean knew that, of course.

“Right,” muttered Dean. He took a deep drink, emptied the bottle, and set it down on the hood. “Look, forget I said anything.” Setting his hands down, Dean sprang to his feet and turned towards the driver’s side door.

His key was in the lock when the subtext of Dean’s question suddenly struck Castiel. “Was this your attempt at asking me on a date?”

Dean’s hand froze, key unturned. “What?” Dean asked incredulously, but there was a hint of anxiety and embarrassment underneath his over-blown surprise. “No, man. Why’d you think...? I’m just hungry, wasn’t thinking.”

Studying him, Castiel casually undid his tie. Dean’s eyes widened slightly, watching every move that Castiel made. “You said the restaurant was nice. Is it a diner?” Dean shook his head, licking his lips as Castiel undid the top button of his shirt. “Is it a bar?” Flushing, Dean shook his head again. “I am unfamiliar with the standard etiquette in circumstances such as this, but it sounds a great deal like you were asking me on a date.”

“Dude, just, no,” the way that Dean lowered his eyes and sucked at his cheek spoke far more loudly than his words. “Just thought it might be nice to go...somewhere nice. Sorry. Of course you don’t eat.”

“Very well, I accept,” Castiel said with a smile, walking purposefully towards the passenger side of the Impala. He set his hand on the door handle and pulled, quirking an eyebrow at Dean over the top of the car to hint that this was Dean’s cue to unlock the vehicle.

“You accept my apology?” scowled Dean.

Castiel pointedly rattled the door handle again, but Dean didn’t budge. “Your offer of a date. I would like to go on a date with you, Dean. Where are we going?”

“I wasn’t asking you out on a date!” Dean exclaimed.

With a sigh, Castiel teleported into the car and reached over to unlock Dean’s door. When Dean continued not to move, Castiel took the handle and pushed the door open, forcing Dean to take a step back. “Based on my knowledge of your relationship history, I would be surprised if you’ve ever explicitly invited someone on a date,” Castiel reasoned. “I am attempting to extrapolate based on my familiarity with you.”

“What?” spluttered Dean. “Not a date! Not a relationship!” He jerked the car door open the rest of the way and slumped in to the driver’s seat, pulling it shut behind him.

“Exactly.” Castiel gave him an encouraging smile. It didn’t matter what Dean said. They’d been sleeping together for nearly two months. They were clearly engaged in a relationship, even if they’d never taken the time to discuss or define its nature. Castiel saw no need to assign bounding language when he knew it would only serve to make Dean uncomfortable. If teasing Dean now weren’t proving so fun, he’d not insist on terming the invitation a date, either. Barely contained by Dean’s skin, the bright soul roiled, and Castiel clamped down on his grace, lest his earlier relaxation make him vulnerable to Dean’s advances.

“ _You’ve_ never asked anyone on a date,” Dean muttered petulantly.  He went to start the car, only to find himself empty handed. “Fuck.” Opening the door again, he leaned out of the car, retrieved his keys and tried again. The Impala came to life with a purring roar, and the disquiet in Dean’s soul faded, soothed by his love of his Baby running smoothly.

“You’re right,” Castiel said. Turning, he stared Dean down until the hunter looked his way. Green eyes met blue. Dean looked confused, tense, and uncomfortable, but at least he was meeting Castiel’s gaze. “Dean, would you like to go on a date with me?”

“What?” Dean squawked. His flush darkened, and he tore his eyes away, shifting the Impala into gear and pulling out of the parking spot. “Shit, no!”

“Oh,” Castiel said with mock disappointed, turning to stare out the window. With difficulty, he kept his lips from curling into a grin.

“Can we just go to dinner?” said Dean desperately.

Brightening, Castiel turned back, allowing his smile free rein. “Sure.”

“Fuck,” muttered the hunter, and steered the Impala onto the streets of the town.

The restaurant, incongruously named “Bubba’s Italiano,” was not the height of fine dining but it was a far cry from the usual fare the Winchesters opted for. Most of the cozy, dimly lit space was arranged into plush booths individually lit by stained glass pendant lights. The tables were polished dark fiber wood and arranged real stainless steel silverware atop actual cloth napkins, and the menu only had one burn mark, likely from the small candle on the table rather than from errant cigarette ash. Looking through the modest menu that listed a strange mixture of classic Italian and classic barbecue and dishes that fused the two, Castiel wondered if he should order something. He’d never been on a date. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t physically capable of eating. He’d even found it pleasurable once or twice. However, it seemed like a great deal of trouble and expense to obtain sustenance he didn’t require.

Over the top of his menu, Dean repeatedly glanced covertly at Castiel. Catching Dean’s eye each time, Castiel grew increasingly confused, but he focused on the menu, puzzling through the selection with his minimal frame of reference for flavor profiles. Finally, with a flap of plastic striking plastic, Dean closed his and slammed it onto the table. “Look, I get it, I’m an idiot,” Dean snapped. Their waitress was approaching, clearly heard Dean and thought better of it. She turned around and walked quickly away. “You don’t have to pretend to be interested in food to humor me.”

“What do you think ‘linguine con maiale stirato’ tastes like?” asked Castiel pensively. His current approach to handling Dean’s self-deprecation was to ignore it. Answering it or attempting to dissipate it only made Dean surly, and his soul would reach for Castiel and comfort. When Castiel pretended it hadn’t happened, the hunter grew embarrassed and flustered and desisted, at least temporarily. It was one example of changes in Castiel’s behavior necessitated by the distance he had introduced to their relationship, and Castiel hated it. Every instinct demanded that Castiel insist that Dean not treat himself so.

“Tastes like? I don’t even know what it means,” Dean sighed and waved the waitress over. “I’ll have the mozzarella burger bolognese with parmesan and prosciutto.”

“Ciabatta or standard roll?” asked the waitress, scrawling the order down.

“...what’s a ciabatta?” Dean asked blankly, butchering the pronunciation.

“It’s a type of Italian bread made with an unusually large percentage of oil and water, resulting in it baking in the shape of a traditional Italian slipper,” supplied Castiel. Shaking his head, Dean gave Castiel a slight eye roll that couldn’t hide his affection. Castiel felt color rise in his cheeks.

“Just give me the regular bun,” said Dean. “Medium rare. And a Budweiser.”

“Sure,” said the waitress. “And you, sir?” She gave Castiel a very warm smile. Dean’s open expression instantly became a glower.

Staring at his options had not given Castiel any insight in to what he should eat. He knew what the words meant – pasta with pulled pork, burgers with meat sauce, eggplant parmesan, lasagna – but he had no idea how to assess which would produce a pleasing or displeasing taste. “I’ll have the same thing,” he said decisively. “But I’d like mine on a Ciabatta please, and well done.”

“Seriously?” Dean choked on a laugh. “It’s already dead, you don’t have to kill it again.”

A memory returned to Castiel powerfully, bent over a pan of raw meat, shoveling double handfuls of ground beef into his mouth as if his life depended on it. Repressing a shudder, he looked the waitress in the eye and repeated, “well done, please.” She didn’t move, meeting his gaze, her eyes growing progressively wider. Her breath picked up and her cheeks pinked.

“Make it quick,” Dean snapped, giving her a tap on the arm. She started and blushed more deeply. With a mumbled apology, she darted away. A moment later, she was back, grabbing their menus. She left again, then returned a third time, hanging her head sheepishly.

“What did you want to drink, sir?” she asked Castiel, her face crimson.

“Water,” he made his tone gentle to ease her incomprehensible embarrassment. With a nod, she bolted for another table.

Silence fell between them. Dean leaned back, letting his head drop against the top of the back cushion, unfocused eyes gazing at the ceiling. Watching him, Castiel felt increasingly troubled. This wasn’t going at all what he expected, not that he had much idea what to expect. What did people do on dates? The few television shows that he’d seen that incorporated a date generally involved either awkward small talk or both parties saying exactly the right thing at precisely the right time. Neither of those matched Castiel’s expectations of a conversation with Dean. Castiel sat stiffly, hands folded in his lap, trench coat spreading on the bench around him. Absently, he realized he was still wearing his undone tie – so was Dean, for that matter – and he pulled it off and balled it up in his lap.

“Fuck,” muttered Dean. Drooping forward, Dean rested his elbows on the edge of the table and clasped his hands before him, halfway to Castiel. Dean let his head drop so that he was staring at the table top and heaved a sigh. “Cas, man, relax. It’s not a test.”

“Perhaps not, but I’d like you to have a nice date,” Castiel said apologetically. “What would you like to talk about?”

“It’s not a date!” said Dean in strangled tones, glancing to the tables around them. As no one was sitting within 13 feet, Castiel was not sure what Dean was looking for. Nonetheless, he looked around. The restaurant was sparsely populated on a Thursday evening. Two other couples sat at tables across the room, one pair eating, the other peering at each other across a cleared table, holding hands, their eyes illuminated warmly by the candle they’d placed between them. A family at a large booth in the corner were the only other patrons, completely engaged in their own cheerful, boisterous conversation.

“Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?” Castiel asked, surprised.

“Says the man who was flirting with the waitress,” Dean countered aggressively. Taken aback, Castiel flinched. He had  _not_ been flirting. All he’d done was make eye contact. Perhaps that was what had made her so uncomfortable. Dean had warned him that Castiel could be intense in his scrutiny, and he’d been trying to modulate the behavior. “Look, Cas, I get it. You’re getting bored. It’s fine.” Dean’s attention was entirely on the tabletop, so presumably he did not see the blank stare Castiel directed at him. “And, maybe I thought this was a good idea, but it clearly wasn’t, so...whatever. It’s all fine.”

Reaching across the table, Castiel laid his hand over Dean’s. Stricken, Dean finally looked up and met Castiel’s eyes. “Dean,” Castiel said earnestly, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The moment stretched out, and Castiel let Dean feel the full force of his “intense scrutiny.” The hunter’s eyes grew wide, his jaw slack. Dean opened his mouth to speak, shut it, tried again, shut it again, and then grunted. Castiel grew even more confused.

“Wow, we suck at this,” said Dean, sardonic laughter bubbling up around the words.

“I was under the impression you were quite pleased with my skills at sucking,” Castiel said with as much innocence as he could muster. Lust swelled Dean’s pupils for an instant, but he repressed it visibly. Freeing one of his hands from beneath Castiel’s, he wrapped both around Castiel’s hand, threading their fingers together.

“Dude. Not helping,” Dean said pointedly, but he didn’t sound in the least displeased. “Alright. Look, I’m just going to ask. Have you, or have you not, been acting weird for weeks?”

“My impression has been that you have always found my behavior to be atypical as compared to normal human interaction,” Castiel deflected the question. That Dean had found it in himself to ask Castiel about the changes in Castiel’s behavior was so heartwarming, so indicative of the affection that Dean couldn’t express, that it was overwhelming. The question drove home how painful it was that Castiel couldn’t meet Dean’s honesty and bravery with a demonstration of his own faith and trust. The way that Dean’s soul reached for Castiel had to be discouraged at all costs.

“True,” Dean conceded. He visibly struggled with himself. “Can you just be straight with me?” Since the dawn of time, angels had manipulated human souls to ensure that humans were drawn to angels. That was what Dean was experiencing, that was what drew Dean’s soul to Castiel’s grace, but from Dean’s point of view, the pull surely felt substantive and real. A small part of Castiel suggested that he should give his beloved hunter the chance to understand, and his grace glowed warmly at the thought, but Castiel repressed it. If somehow Dean did understand, he would think that Castiel had used him, and if he didn’t understand, Castiel couldn’t guess how he’d respond, but none of the possibilities that came to mind were permissible.

“Absolutely impossible,” Castiel said. Incredulity washed over Dean’s face, rapidly darkening into anger. “Provided we are choosing to define my sexual identity by the gender of my vessel, I believe that we have firmly established that neither of us is straight. I will not become so no matter how you ask.” Redirection was Castiel’s only option. Hopefully, Dean would not grow too frustrated with him. His grace curled up sadly, hunched over itself, locked away, whispering the words that Castiel truly wished to say.

_I’m so sorry, Dean. I know you’re trying. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever done for me. But I cannot let you do more. I cannot risk you._

Across the table, Dean’s eyes flashed brilliant green. Through their entangled hands, Castiel felt a brush of dazzling power against his skin. Instantly, his grace reacted, bending and stretching the limits that Castiel had placed on it, unable to break free. Castiel’s skin tingled as if he were struck by lightning, a shiver scourged him, and awareness of the bistro vanished. All he could feel was Dean’s soul straining to reach him, hammering on the walls that divided soul from grace. Castiel’s grace whimpered and lamented the separation. In a breathless instant, it was over, the light behind Dean’s eyes faded, Castiel’s grace wailed within its prison, and Dean’s expression betrayed no clues of how much he was aware of the spiritual conflict between them. It should be impossible that he be aware of any of it, but then, everything that had happened should be impossible. Human souls did not behave like that. This was precisely why they had to be apart.

“Alright,” Dean  huffed. He gave Castiel’s hand a reassuring squeeze that completely belied his tone. “This is some wonky angel crap, right? Like, bizarre-ass woo-woo magic bullshit?”

Frantic concern ate at Castiel’s thoughts, but he sublimated all, kept it all from his face. Instead, he gave Dean a quizzical look. “Angel’s do not excrete, so we do not have to worry about any defecation, magical or otherwise. Even if I eat it will not be an issue, and there is no way in which cows are involved. Further, I have not been under the impression that there is anything unusual or strange about my posterior. Have I been mistaken in assuming that, were it unacceptably odd, you would tell me? And lastly, I am unfamiliar with the terms ‘wonky’ and ‘woo-woo,’ though I was under the impression that the second was either an expression of celebration or the sound a child makes while attempting to imitate a siren.” By the time Castiel was done with this explanation, Dean’s expression had passed through frustration, amusement, and slack-jawed amazement before settling on what Castiel thought, incongruously, was desire. “Well, Dean? Is my buttocks peculiar in some way I am unaware of?” It was a challenge not to smirk. Thank God, in all His infinite mercy, for Dean’s tendency to speak in idioms.

Dean’s hands clenched around Castiel’s, palms noticeably sweaty. “Do you have any idea how much it turns me on when you do that?”

Genuinely confused, Castiel shook his head. “Do what?”

“Act all obtuse.” Dean’s thumb made lazy circles over the webbing of skin between Castiel’s thumb and the rest of his hand. Each sweeping touch jolted pleasant feelings up Castiel’s arm.

“Honestly?” Castiel permitted himself a smirk. “I’ve had my suspicions, yes.” He gave Dean a warm, encouraging smile. The feeling of imminent danger passed, the topics that couldn’t be discussed effectively bypassed.

Dean grunted as if he’d been gut punched. His eyes, rendered golden by the candle light, went liquid and black. His lips pursed and relaxed as he searched for a reply. “Outside.” Dean slid to the end of the bench and rose, dragging Castiel’s arm with him. “Now.”

“But...” The waitress was approaching, holding their plates in her hands.

“Now, Cas,” Dean insisted. The waitress stopped, staring at them. “Outside. Right now.”

“We’ll be right back,” Castiel said apologetically, giving in to Dean’s determined tugging.

Straight out the door, around the side of the building, down a narrow alley that divided Bubba’s from a car repair shop next door. Dean jerked Castiel’s arm hard, pulled him around, slammed Castiel’s back against the rough concrete wall. Breath knocked from his lungs, Castiel struggled to voice his uncertainty but had no opportunity as Dean’s teeth bit at Castiel’s lips and derailed rational objections. Hands brushed Castiel’s layers back from his shoulders, pressed him into the wall, pinned him. Dean’s leg lodged between Castiel’s thighs. Guttural, heavy breaths escaped Dean as he bit hard enough to draw a whimper for Castiel, licked the spot to sooth it, pressed a dominating kiss to Castiel’s lips. Arousal had been the last thing on Castiel’s mind as he’d sought to escape from Dean’s entirely justified questions, but faced with this onslaught his cock began to swell with interest.

“Dean...”

The night was hot and muggy. From a shadowed field behind the restaurant, backed by a dark line of trees, insects and wildlife made a humming background of quiet noise that faded instantly as compared to the immediacy of Dean’s and Castiel’s breathy interactions.

“Quiet,” Dean murmured against Castiel’s lips. His tongue muscled between Castiel’s lips, pried between his teeth, then contrasted his aggression by lightly, delicately flicking over every sensitive place in Castiel’s mouth. Castiel’s breathing sped up, strained through his nose, caused his chest to flutter. “If you’re gonna go out of your way to get me hard in a fucking restaurant, you’re going to live with the fucking consequences.”

That sounded fair.

Castiel reached out to pull Dean’s body closer to his, but Dean growled discouragingly, sound reverberating within Castiel’s mouth, echoing through Castiel’s head. Dean’s hands left Castiel’s shoulders, one seizing each of Castiel’s wrists, forcing them over Castiel’s head, grinding them so hard into the wall that it was painful. As was so often the case in their interactions, both knew that had Castiel wished to, he could easily overpower Dean. That Castiel chose not to was all the permission that Dean needed. Dean shifted his grip so that both hands were held in one of his, and instantly lowered the hand thus freed to untuck Castiel’s shirt, slip beneath and rake nails over Castiel’s chest. A breathy groan escaped Castiel.

Nearby, a door opened and closed with a loud clatter and footsteps pattered on concrete. Castiel squeezed his eyes shut. In his own head, his breathing sounded impossibly loud. No one passing nearby could possibly miss it. They’d turn down the alley. They’d see everything. Dean nuzzled down Castiel’s chin, mouthed at Castiel’s ear lobe and sucked on it. A whimper struggled to win through Castiel’s teeth, and Dean chuckled, pressing so close that Castiel felt the sound as if he’d made it himself. “So, you  _can_ be quiet.”

Dean’s fingers latched on to Castiel’s nipple.

Pleasure spiked from the rough contact, sharp and hot where Dean touched, scattering to stream tingling desire through Castiel’s blood stream. The footsteps grew louder, and Castiel desperately supported his body against the wall, taking comfort from its cool solidity as he struggled not to give voice to his gratification. The thrill of fear that came with the possibility of discovery curled around the heat growing within him and unexpectedly caused it to multiply, arousing him further, driving his dick to full hardness even as he attempted to calm himself so as not to give them away. The overall effect was dizzying and a little frightening.

“Dean, stop,” Castiel managed to whisper. “Wait until they’re gone. Please.”

Dean’s instantly obeyed the request, lips leaving Castiel’s skin, hand emerging from beneath Castiel’s shirt. Disappointment whispered through Castiel’s body. Castiel opened his eyes and saw the restraint painting Dean’s features. Dean’s muscled, broad chest rose and fell rapidly, his breathing silent despite the way his nostrils flared at every inhalation. Their eyes met for an instant, Dean’s nearly black in the darkness, then Dean was watching the end of the alleyway, listening intently to the fading steps. They held their pose until Castiel’s heart was pounding so loudly that he doubted he could have heard the person if they were standing feet away.

Lips met Castiel’s, the grip on his wrists redoubled in strength, Dean’s thigh rubbed against Castiel’s erection, Dean’s arousal pressed into Castiel’s hip, and Dean’s free hand was on Castiel’s belt buckle. Pulsing heat grew at every movement they made, flares growing from every point of contact between their bodies. Stabs of pleasure caused Castiel’s dick to strain against his trousers as throbbed in time to his heart beat. Clear thought was elusive, but Castiel had a momentary flash of insight that this entire scenario was unusual even for Dean. To risk discovery in a public place seemed entirely in character, but to go so quickly from angry to aroused that he would insist on their repairing to an alley when a cheeseburger was sitting on their table growing cold – that struck Castiel as nearly impossible. The timing of Dean’s change, as compared to the struggle between Castiel’s grace and Dean’s soul, was suspicious. Concentrating, Castiel withdrew from his passion enough to maintain his awareness of his thoughts, to distance himself from the pleasure his vessel experienced to the extent necessary to monitor his recalcitrant grace.

With a fierce growl, Dean jammed his hips against Castiel, forcing wonderful, enticing hardness against Castiel’s own erection. A groan burst from Castiel before he could stop himself and his tenuous hold on reason loosened.

“That,” snapped Dean, rolling his hips into Castiel again. “That is exactly the shit I mean. Stop it, Cas.”

“Stop what?” Castiel panted. His body responded in kind to a third thrust, applying mutual pressure to their bulging cocks through the fabric of their pants. Dean’s thigh rose between Castiel’s legs, supporting much of his weight as Castiel rubbed his entry and balls against the muscle. Castiel moaned softly, “Dean, that feels so good...”

“Yeah,” said Dean. Continuing his steady thrusts, Dean slipped his hand within Castiel’s pants, onto his hip, fingers trailing teasing lines around to Castiel’s butt. With firm pushes, Dean encouraged Castiel to match Dean’s rhythm. “Yeah, it does. So don’t you dare zone out on me again.”

“Zone out?” Castiel tried to lean forward to seek Dean’s mouth, the need to feel lips move on his suddenly urgent. Instead, Dean pressed his shoulder to Castiel’s and pressed his lips to the hollow at the base of Castiel’s neck, sucking hard at the skin exposed by Castiel’s undone top button. Unable to repress quiet moans, Castiel’s hips jerked hard, meeting Dean just as he did the same, and an explosion of feeling left Castiel dizzy.

“I’m holding you right here.” Dean’s breath was uncomfortably hot in the Alabama night, ghosting humidity to dampen the collar of Castiel’s shirt. “Not just your fucking hands.” Dean kissed further up and then sucked hard, drawing a red bruise instantly to the surface of Castiel’s skin. Anyone who saw Castiel wouldn’t be able to miss that mark until it healed. The prospect was surprisingly arousing. Castiel whimpered at the pain even as Dean crowded him closer and switched to slighter, more determined thrusts of his hips against Castiel’s. “No listening to prayers.” Dean’s head shifted further up Castiel’s neck and his lips worked to tease out another bruise. “Don’t you fucking  _dare_ lie back and think of England.” The hand on Castiel’s butt slipped between the cheeks to tease dryly, enticingly at Castiel’s entryway.

“Dean!” Fragmented thoughts tried to make sense of Dean’s comments – why would he think of England, all he’d done was go there to research werewolves! – but Castiel couldn’t resolve any of it to coherency. All his attention was on the multi-faceted onslaught to his body and on the desperate necessity of maintaining reason enough to restrain his grace.

“ _You_ told me you wanted this,” Dean continued. Teeth bit into Castiel’s neck and he cried out.

They froze, waiting to see if the noise had given them away. The night was still, the sound of cicadas suddenly grew loud. The possibility of discovery sent cold fear through Castiel, but it faded almost immediately and in its wake he felt meltingly hot, desperate. Insistently, he began to rut against Dean’s thigh despite Dean’s continued immobility, repressing the moans that leaked from him to a series of inarticulate whimpers.

“If you don’t want this,” Dean pressed the tip of his finger into Castiel’s pucker, and Castiel threw his behind back into the contact, silently urging Dean to penetrate him further. “Cas, if you don’t want  _me_ , you gotta tell me.” Dean finally released his grip on Castiel’s wrists, allowing the limbs to drop limply to Castiel’s sides in a vertigo-inducing rush of tingling numbness. Continuing to tease at Castiel’s pucker, Dean’s other arm encircled Castiel just above his hips and drew their bodies and erections together, holding Castiel still as the finger pressed burningly within him, penetrating to the first joint.

“I want you, Dean!” Rutting wasn’t nearly enough. Leaning his shoulders hard against the wall, Castiel let his weight settle onto Dean’s thigh, greatly increasing the delicious pressure that every rubbing, stuttering movement put on his sacks, the area between his cock and rear, and the intensity of the contact between his and Dean’s erections. “Nothing has changed, I swear.”

The absolute truth of that vow seared through Castiel, his grace surging in response, drawing an echoing burst of light from Dean’s soul. Desperately, Castiel firmed his grip on his magic even as he struggled to surrender entirely to how good he felt.

“Take me,” Castiel panted. Weak hands found their way between their bodies, and Castiel struggled to undo Dean’s pants.

“I will,” there was obvious relief in Dean’s voice. He rested his forehead on Castiel’s shoulder, clearly concentrating on the movements of his hips and the gentle, teasing friction of his finger within Castiel’s butt. The sweat gathered on his forehead soaked instantly into the fabric of Castiel’s shirt.

“No,” Castiel said. Shifting his head, he mouthed against Dean’s hair, caught the top lobe of his ear and teased at it with his teeth. Dean whimpered, hips hitching. The button on his jeans finally came free, and as the tingling receded from Castiel’s hands, he lowered Dean’s zipper, reached through the opening in Dean’s boxers and grasped the wonderful, thick cock that endlessly captivated Castiel. A full-throated moan was only barely muffled by Dean burying his face against Castiel’s arm pit. “Now, Dean. Take me now.”

“No lube...”

Pressing back against the wall, Castiel shifted his legs, lifting himself from Dean’s thigh and dropping his trousers. The movements forced Dean’s finger out of him, and the emptiness felt vast, but Castiel repressed the disappointment as he pushed for what he craved. It didn’t matter that to Castiel that he was barely prepped, it didn’t matter that they’d never done this without lubricant, all that mattered was feeling all that dominant strength moving within him, letting himself get pounded as he so desperately wanted and expressing to Dean with Castiel’s willing body the apologies and reassurances that he couldn’t speak aloud. He shifted so that his legs straddled Dean’s, awkwardly stroking Dean’s erection with his other hand. Only then did he realize that Dean had stopped moving around him. Dean had lifted his head from Castiel’s shoulder and watched him with consternation and uncertainty.

“We can do it this way, right?” Castiel asked hesitantly. Maybe he’d misunderstood the logistics of this process, maybe without lubricant it wasn’t possible for a man of Dean’s size to penetrate Castiel.

“Fuck,” whispered Dean. He pressed a long, surprisingly gentle kiss to Castiel’s lips. “Yeah, we can, but we gotta be careful. It’ll be different...”

“I don’t care as long as you are inside me,” Castiel cut to the chase. “That’s all I want.”

“Okay,” Dean let out a long, slow breath. “Okay.” Hands came to rest on Castiel’s thighs, spreading his legs wider apart. That done, Dean gently removed Castiel’s hand from Dean’s cock. “Arms around my neck,” he instructed. Castiel obeyed instantly, bringing their chests together, wrapping his arms tightly around Dean’s shoulders, hands coming to rest on his biceps. A flare of energy coursed through their entwined bodies as Castiel’s fingers brushed at the brand on Dean’s shoulder, intense despite the interference of the cloth of Dean’s suit jacket and dress shirt. Dean gave a shocked moan at the feeling, his soul once again straining for Castiel’s grace, but Castiel had no difficulty restraining himself, to his immense relief. He carefully shifted his grip lest it happen again. Dean shimmied closer to him, pressing Castiel’s shoulders to the wall, positioning his legs between Castiel’s. Their faces were close, cheeks pressed together, and Castiel turned to trace gentle kisses along Dean’s chin.

“Slide your hips forward...” One of Dean’s hands left Castiel’s. Raising it to his face, Dean licked his palm. Castiel reached out with his tongue, licking along the back of Dean’s hand. The salty taste of Dean’s skin flooded his mouth, and lapped up more, loving the way Dean chuckled at the contact, the way the laughter caused Dean’s chest to press against Castiel’s. Encouraged, Castiel twisted his head so that he could take Dean’s fingers into his mouth, sucking them, coating them in saliva, helping Dean moisten his grip. “That’s good,” murmured Dean, pleasure causing a hitch in his voice, “that’ll help.” Castiel sucked on the fingers, and Dean gave a low moan, only to withdraw the hand a moment later and replace the intrusion with his tongue, kissing Castiel with tender devotion. The hand lowered out of sight between their bodies, and moments later Castiel felt the wet, white-hot heat of Dean’s cock as it slotted against his thigh. “Lift your legs, Cas. Wrap them around me if you want, but if you can keep them raised to the sides on your own, that’d be better.”

“I’ll do my best, Dean,” Castiel replied, voice soft and deep. Raising his legs, he slid further down, all his weight supported on Dean’s shoulders and thighs and by the stone wall behind him. Dean’s cock brushed against his own, and both men groaned softly.

“I know you will, I know...”

With one adept hand, Dean muscled Castiel’s rear to the position he needed, and the other must have been responsible for the unerring aim with which Dean’s blunt tip came to a rest against Castiel’s tight, unprepared pucker. Gently, Dean pressed against him. Pre-come made a cool, moist counterpart to the natural dryness, but it wasn’t enough. Rather than penetrating, Dean slipped into the cleft of Castiel’s ass. Castiel whimpered and twitched his hips in useless pursuit.

“Gotta hold still, Cas,” Dean said as he hefted and adjusted Castiel’s weight. A wet finger flicked over the entrance, spreading saliva over the area. Smearing the liquid around, Dean force through the tight ring of muscles, slipping a finger tip within to do what little he could with their spit. The effort of holding himself still, holding himself patient, left Castiel trembling, panting, and unthinkingly he mouthed at the sweaty skin of Dean’s face, running his smooth lips over rough, stubbled cheeks. After what felt like an eternity of gentle, slight movements, Dean’s cock was positioned against him once more, but once again Dean slid away without entering him, unable to win through the tight muscle with such minimal lubricant to ease the way.

“Hold still,” Castiel instructed Dean. He felt rather Dean’s nod against his mouth. Leveraging himself using his arms, Castiel shifted his body until he was poised over Dean’s cock. The strain of Dean’s muscles as he supported Castiel’s weight was delightful, so much strength enfolding and supporting him, and Dean used his hands to aid in maneuvering Castiel’s hips and hold his cock ready. The wonderful tip once more came to rest against Castiel’s puckered entrance, and Castiel lowered himself with all his weight onto that tip. For a moment, he thought it wasn’t going to work, and a distressed, sad whimper escaped his lips. Then, with a painful abrasion of cock on flesh, Castiel spread to the intrusion.

It hurt. Castiel had assumed it would, but he’d not imagined how much. Previous to this, Dean had penetrated him with one unlubricated finger and the feeling had burned and chafed, ached like a rope burn. This was like that, only much more so. Muscles struggled against the undesired intrusion, unprepared skin wore against Dean’s cock, and Castiel gritted his teeth and tried to force himself to relax, still certain that this was what he wanted, if they could only get Dean inside him. He wondered if it was painful for Dean, too. The hunter made no effort to speed things, allowing Castiel to slowly, so slowly, lower his body and surround him.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asked, voice strained and harsh.

“Fuck, Cas,” muttered Dean breathily. “I should be asking you that. I can’t believe you’re fucking doing this.”

“I want you so much, Dean,” said Castiel, bearing down more forcefully.

With a burst of pain just tinged with pleasurable friction, in a rush the thick ridge beneath the head of Dean’s cock won through Castiel’s tight muscles. Neither of them moved for long moments, panting perfectly in time with each. Castiel didn’t attempt to continue until the pain gave way to the ever-present longing for more, for every inch that Dean could give him. The longing returned quickly, the need for everything  _Dean_ .Making only slight motions, Dean shifted his grip so that he had both hands on Castiel’s hips, but he added no downward force, leaving all to Castiel.

Agonizingly, infinitesimally slowly, Dean’s saliva-slicked dick eased into Castiel’s tight, dry body. With each inch, the heat within Castiel ebbed only to surge to desperation as his body accustomed to the further penetration. By the time Dean was fully seated within him, Castiel was whimpering irrepressibly, his body thrumming with desperation. He’d never have imagined that such a combination of feelings would leave him so riddled with need: small licks of pain yet stabbed through him, punctuated and subsumed by occasional immense spurts pleasure at the wonderful pressure of being spread open and filled, the faint background of fear that they risked being caught, the strain of Castiel’s grace against the limits he’d placed on it, the increasing urgency with which his cock reminded him that it had only the slight friction of cloth to grant gratification. Heat grew in his gut and pooled between his legs and his thoughts begged for Dean to move.

“You’re doing great,” whispered Dean reassuringly. “I’ve got you, Cas.” Leaning forward, Dean forced Castiel’s shoulders hard against the wall, held Castiel’s buttocks firmly with his hands and supported him. Their torsos pressed together so closely that they were forced to breath in time, flush from hip bones to shoulder. The cloth of their shirts and the firmness of their bellies provided much-needed friction to Castiel’s attention-starved cock. Uncontrollably, Castiel’s hips bucked into that delightful feeling, and Dean’s breath hissed out. Dean’s dick was nearly forced completely from Castiel’s body as Castiel’s muscles clenched and his body moved. “Don’t move, Cas!”

“Sorry...I’m sorry...” Tears pooled in the corners of Castiel’s eyes.

Firm hands on Castiel’s backside guided him gently until Dean was once more completely sheathed within in Castiel’s body. They held that position for several moments until Castiel shook with the effort of not moving, until he wasn’t sure which of them was trembling more fiercely. Ever so slightly, Dean cocked his hips back and then pressed forward again. The movement was nearly non-existent, but it caused a faint spill of pleasured sparks to burst through Castiel. The ridge of Dean’s dick ran along the wonderful bundle of nerves within Castiel, and Castiel murmured his approval, focusing on how good it felt and pushing away the desire for the hard, pounding rhythm he was used to. Dean repeated the motion, once, twice, over and over again.

At first, Castiel was disappointed. The flares of pleasure were slight, and often accompanied by trickles of pain, and the pressure against that wonderful, blissful spot, while constant, felt negligible, superficial. Only his absolute faith in Dean kept him still, kept him from begging for more, kept him from lifting himself and slamming himself back down to take what he needed. Surely, his own blood would make an acceptable lubricant, and he could easily heal the injury afterwards. However, he knew, with absolute conviction, that Dean would be horrified at the very prospect, and so he restrained himself. Time and again, Dean rolled gently against Castiel’s body, grunting each time he bottomed out, and time and again, Castiel felt the pleasant but inadequate surge of heat.

Castiel couldn’t have said when those small bursts of pleasure built to the point that each surged through him like a pulse of adrenaline. He couldn’t have said when those trivial brushes against his sensitive core began to feel monumental. All he knew was that Dean maintained that same slow, steady, meager movement, and Castiel kept his legs up and collapsed his back against the wall and felt himself being nudged, twitch by twitch, closer to rapture. Bliss built upon bliss until Castiel was desperate for more, desperate for Dean not to stop, desperate for every the tiny pulses that stacked upon each other like straws before one last one would finally push Castiel over the edge.

With a low, throaty growl, Dean pulled out what felt like a huge amount, and there was no longer any pain, only rapture that exploded through every cell of Castiel’s.

“Dean,” he groaned.

“How you doin’, Cas?” Dean’s voice was strained, tight with fatigue, low and hoarse with self-control. The arms holding Castiel’s backside shifted, and Castiel could feel the muscles quivering.

“Good,” Castiel gasped. “This is good, this is...” Dean drew back, movements still relatively small but enormous in comparison to what he’d been doing, and thrust again. Another groan burst, unrestrainedly, from Castiel’s mouth.

“Hey, what’s that?” A woman’s voice said curiously. Heels clattered on the pavement from the direction of the entrance to the restaurant.

Dean went absolutely still. A bead of sweat traced coldly down Castiel’s spine, his heart raced, his breathing sounded enormously loud to his ears. The length buried in him burned, his body screamed for more friction. Clutching onto Dean’s shoulders as if his existence depended on it, Castiel whispered in his ear, “Please, Dean.”

“Come on, hun, we’ve only got the babysitter another half hour,” whined a man. The door of Bubba’s Italiano clattered shut.

Castiel wiggled his hips, and Dean exhaled explosively against Castiel’s neck. Within him, Dean’s dick twitched noticeably. Fabric, tantalizingly rough, rubbed all around Castiel’s leaking cock. Pleasure burst like pinpricks of light behind Castiel’s eyes. The risk of discovery was irrelevant as compared to the need burning through him, desperately urging towards release, begging for the one hard push that was all he needed.

“Please, Dean, please, need you to...”

“...Cas!” hissed Dean. “Thought you wanted me to stop when...” Dean huffed around a strained groan. Unable to prevent himself, Dean gave an abortive thrust, and, forced to silence, Castiel expressed with movement the delight he could not vocalize, clenching his fingers around Dean’s shoulders, knocking his head back against the wall.

Car doors beeped. “But what if someone is hurt?” said the woman, her voice a light soprano and thick with genuine concern.

“No, no, no, no, no,” whispered Castiel, shaking his head from side to side, grinding his scalp against the stark concrete. The grating pain grounded him, kept him from simply seizing what he was so close to. Even with that, pleasure blanked his vision with every breath that Dean took, that he took. Every slight movement brought friction, every touch sent cascades of heat through his body, every twitch of his cock, of Dean’s, shivered through him, impossibly enticing. His muscles clenched inadvertently and Dean whimpered against the side of his neck. Castiel could feel the sweat coating the hunter’s face, the musky smell swamping his nose, the damp soaking through Dean’s shirt and jacket.

“You can’t tell me you didn’t hear  _that_ !” she continued. Castiel turned to look down the alley. A light in the parking lot caught on the features of an attractive woman on the young side of middle age in a modest but flattering dress, peering into the alley, her expression shadowed by the deep darkness that shrouded Castiel and Dean.

“Make her leave,” grated Dean, voice so soft that Castiel struggled to understand him.

Castiel could. It was easy. Just a small amount of grace, he could distract her or manipulate her, and she’d go. An alluring flicker reached for Castiel, Dean’s soul streaked with pulsing streamers of indescribable color, a demonstration to Castiel’s magical sight that Dean was as close to his climax as Castiel was. If Castiel let his grace go now, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stop, wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold himself back, wasn’t sure what Dean’s soul would do.

“Hello?” The clatter of the heels changed pitch as she took her first hesitant step onto the pavement of the alley. “Is anyone there?”

“Come  _on_ , Jenn,” moaned the man impatiently.

“Give it a rest, Stan,” she snapped, looking over her shoulder. “I’ve got my damn period anyway, it’s not like we’re messing around regardless.”

The tension was unbearable. Dean was mouthing silent words against his skin, entire body shaking. Feeling how close Dean was to falling apart, how much Dean was expending to keep himself together, was destroying Castiel. Would it be so bad if they were discovered? It would be mortifying, sure, and they’d never be able to show themselves at Bubba’s Italiano again, or anywhere in Sheffield, for that matter, but why would they ever need to come back to Sheffield? Because something had murdered four people, ripped them to pieces and eaten their hearts. Because there weren’t enough hunters in the world, and Sam, Dean and Castiel were already there. They had to stay long enough to stop more innocents from dying. There was no one but them. If they were forced to leave, there would be no one to protect these people. Compared to that necessity, Castiel’s concerns about his grace interacting with Dean’s soul seemed petty, paltry.

Castiel eased the restraints on his grace. Instantly, power suffused him, shivered through him like he’d been doused with ice water. Dean’s soul erupted like a volcano in response, the two dancing around each other with unparalleled delight. Dean’s shaking grew even worse. Reaching out magically, Castiel let his senses take in everything around him. Luck was with him. A stray cat was hiding in the dumpster nearby. Tweaking the poor animal’s tail, he spurred it to run down the alley. With a loud meow, the tom bolted, unable to sense Castiel’s grace but well aware that something unnatural had occurred. The cat half ran, half hopped, back arched, hair on end as he hissed and spat and screeched as he bolted past the woman. She let out a burst of musical laughter.

“Oh good,” she said with obvious relief. “It’s just a cat.”

Tearing himself from Dean’s soul was one of the hardest things Castiel had ever done. Extricating himself from the overt and subtlesways in which the two magical forces were attempting to meld felt like ripping his wings off, feather by feather. Someone had done that to him, once, long ago. This felt worse. But then it was done, and Castiel sealed his grace back within himself, and Dean huffed a relieved laugh in his ear as the woman disappeared from view, car doors opened and closed and a motor began to run.

“You do that?” Dean asked breathily. With a faint groan, Dean straightened a little, adjusted his hold on Castiel. Faint brushes of Dean’s cock within Castiel’s desperate body, of their flesh and clothes around his own erection, caused quiet, needy sounds to leak from Castiel’s lips. No words would come, his body still thrumming with the fear of discovery, the heat of desire, the pain of dividing himself from Dean. He’d done it, though. He frantically nodded his answer to Dean’s question. “Love it,” muttered Dean. He scooped an arm beneath Castiel’s hips and held him still for a sharp thrust. Brightness and bliss blanked Castiel’s vision.

“...please, Dean...” Castiel whispered involuntarily.

“Yeah, Cas?” Dean’s tone was teasing. Straining, Dean hitched Castiel’s hips up and pulled him back down on Dean’s cock.

“...so close...”

“Here I was ‘fraid she’d ruined the mood,” chuckling breathily, Dean thrust again and moaned long and low. “Fuck do I need you.”  _Fuck do I love you_ .

The words coursed through Castiel’s body, emotions evoked every bit as powerful and enticing as that excited by their intimate touches.

Dean thrust as hard as he’d done all night, body quaking. “I need you so much.”  _I love you so much._

“Dean!”

Another thrust caused Dean’s blunt tip to slam into Castiel’s prostate, and Castiel drew blood from his lip as he bit down to repress his groan. “Don’t hold back from me, Cas. Please don’t...” Dean groaned and thrust again. “Please don’t ever...” An uneven half thrust followed, another, another. “Come on, Cas, come on, please...” With a surge of strength, Dean shifted Castiel’s hips, slammed in to him. Unspeakable pleasure blanked Castiel’s senses, his cock was caressed between their bodies. With a groan he couldn’t hold back Castiel came, hips thrusting his dick into the friction of their clothing, muscles of his butt clenching. One last tilt of Dean’s hips forced a groan from him as well and he released, thick, hot semen finally lubricating Castiel’s chafed channel. Dean rutted through his climax as Castiel’s muscles bore down on him until Dean’s cock was forced out and they both collapsed bonelessly to the ground. Castiel quaked from head to toe, his leg and stomach muscles completely spent from the effort of keeping body positioned. Dean’s weight lay heavily atop him, the hunter quivering and whimpering. Weakly, Castiel enfolded the precious, wonderful man in his arms, cradled Dean’s head against his chest. Dean shuddered into the contact, not even attempting to move under his own power.

Dean’s soul, streaked black with exhaustion, reached for Castiel.

Castiel’s grace remained quiescent. Pleasure yet rocked him, even the brush of his clothing against his skin felt intense. Dean’s soul crooned for Castiel’s grace to answer it, but he was able to prevent himself from reaching out, prevent himself from healing. Castiel could do this. They could do this. They could share sweet, teasing words; they could share days and nights together; they could share work; they could mind-numbingly good sex in a back alley, all without Castiel risking Dean’s immortal soul. Relief brought tears to his eyes, and he tightened his embrace.

“Are you alright, Dean?”

“Yeah...yeah,” Dean muttered, shifting weakly. “I’ll be great once I get feeling back in my legs...in my feet...in my arms...”

Chuckling, Castiel ran comforting hands over Dean’s body. He’d sweat through his clothing and where their bodies pressed together Castiel could feel his semen soaking through their shirts.

“Fuck, my burger is gonna be cold.” Dean laughed shakily. The sound, always so warm, so welcoming, always such a source of pleasure for Castiel, buoyed his burgeoning hope. As Dean’s humor overtook him, his soul mirrored the sound, gaining strength from Dean’s obvious, evident happiness. The final, wonderful piece of the puzzle fell in to place. Dean’s pleasure and joy could restore his own soul, repair the fatigue that often plagued it. He didn’t need Castiel to expend grace to do that.

Grabbing Dean’s cheeks with his hands, Castiel pulled the surprised hunter into a passionate kiss. For the first time in a month, he wasn’t worried. They could make this work, they could be together, and Castiel could control himself. In the first instant, Dean didn’t reciprocate, but then he melted against Castiel’s body, returning the kiss passionately, tongues meeting hotly, lips working with devoted care against each other. Castiel could feel Dean’s soul repairing further under the care. Everything was going to be fine. Everything was going to be fantastic. Dean needed him, and Castiel loved Dean, and they could be together.

When they finally broke apart, breathing hard, Dean asked with wonder, “What was that for?”

“I’m not holding back,” Castiel said brightly.

“ ‘Bout fucking time,” Dean’s relief was evident, the tension relaxed from his face.

“Come on, let’s go eat our dinner.”

It took several minutes of surreptitious cleaning up and careful clothing adjustment to hide the damage they’d done in the alley. They each closed their jackets over the semen stain. A tissue used to clean up Dean’s dick came away with traces of blood that caused the hunter to give Castiel an apologetic, furrow-browed look, but Castiel smiled Dean’s worries away. Castiel’s insides burned with every movement, rubbed raw despite the care that they’d taken, but he would heal quickly. His pants had gotten wet in a puddle on the ground and Dean’s tie was simply gone. Objectively, Castiel supposed they’d never have fooled anyone even had their clothing remained impeccably clean. Both were too disheveled, bodies too obvious spent and exhausted, faces still too flushed with the pleasure of orgasm. 

The waitress gave them an extremely odd look as they returned to their table, but said nothing.

Their bill was sitting on the table, along with their drinks and plates and Castiel’s balled-up tie.

Their food wasn’t cold. Further, it was delicious.

When they were done, Dean left her a $20 tip by way of thanks.

Stumbling back to the Impala, Dean flopped, exhausted, behind the wheel, and Castiel curled up in the driver’s seat, nursing his aching behind and his abraded shoulders. The men exchanged a look and then broke into absurd giggling.

“You think Sammy is done at the library?” Dean finally managed, prompting another gale of laughter from Castiel.

When it subsided, he realized that Dean was staring at him. Confused, Castiel quirked his head to one side. Dean slid slowly down the bench seat, invading the passenger side. He eased an arm around Castiel’s shoulders, leaned him, and gave Castiel a sweet, gentle kiss.

“What was that for?” Castiel echoed Dean’s earlier question breathlessly.

“Because I need you,” Dean held his eyes, bottomless green, pupils rimmed gold and brown. “And you’re here.”

_I love you_ .

Maybe, some day, Castiel would be able to tell Dean that. Not today, though. Dean returned to his side of the car, the Impala hummed to life as Dean started the motor, and they drove back to the motel to compare notes with Sam. Once Castiel shared what he’d learned about werewolves, they’d likely spend the night hunting it lest it kill again. Guilt briefly dimmed the contented glow suffusing Castiel. He’d fatigued Dean again. Looking over, he watched Dean’s perfect profile. His fingers tapped out an unfamiliar rhythm on the steering wheel though there was no music on, his head bobbed in time. His sharp nose and chiseled chin were distinguished, perfect, handsome. His lips were pink, kiss-swollen and curled into a faint, satisfied smile. His eyes gleamed with the reflected light of his soul. It was obvious to Castiel that he was seeing Dean as he never had before: Dean was happy.

This was a life Castiel could really get used to.

**Author's Note:**

> Um...this story was supposed to be short. I have no idea where I went wrong. I'm sorry (not sorry).
> 
> Part 6 should be up tomorrow, folks! It's already written, just needs a nice thorough editing before I post it. :)
> 
> If you spot any grammatical errors or crap that just makes no sense, please tell me.
> 
> As always - if you have any requests for this series, please let me know. As things are currently planned, story 6 will be up soon, and story 7 will be based on a request I got on FF.net, and after that I have nothing further planned but would like to keep adding stories... :)


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